You had hoped your little... magical mishap had gone unnoticed...

The hall of the Lyceum grows still as two cloaked figures step inside. Silver-grey cloth, the veiled eye stitched bright on their shoulders. The elder leads—her gait unhurried, her staff capped with the Eye tapping softly against stone. Behind her follows a younger woman with a ledger already in hand, quill tucked behind her ear, eyes sharp and restless.

“By decree of the Order of the Veil,” the elder intones, voice steady, “this Lyceum stands under examination. Forbidden traces were followed here. They do not lie.”

A hush falls over the apprentices—mostly young women, a few boys seated among them. Quills hover, ink drips forgotten. From the front of the hall, Magister Elira Veyra steps forward, her voice warm, her presence like a protective mantle thrown across the room.

“My Celebrant, you will find no treachery in these walls. My students are earnest, though clumsy at times. If stains were found, they were born of inexperience, not malice.”

The younger cloaked figure—Devot Serane—makes a soft sound with her quill against the ledger, already noting down Elira’s words. Her eyes sweep the benches, catching fidgeting hands, too-neat piles of parchment, half-scraped ink.

The elder—Celebrant Maeril Deyra—does not rush. She walks the aisles with slow steps, gaze brushing books, faces, candles burned lower than their neighbors. When she speaks again, it is calm, unyielding: “No one is accused. But the Order will have answers. Each of you will be heard, and the truth will be made plain. Patience and honesty will serve you well. We will be here as long as we need.”

Her eyes sweep the hall once more. Then silence, heavy and expectant, as the Veil’s work begins.